


Intent

by asuralucier



Series: The Boy From Nowhere [3]
Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Banter, Have a hug, Jossed Backstory, M/M, Post John's first job, Pre-JW 1, and some sex too I guess, and some tea, hot toddies, poor bb!Wick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 08:30:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19269520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: ”You shouldn’t be here,” Winston attempts to rub sleep out of his eyes. At first he thinks that he’s dreamed it, this Wick-shaped apparition, but then the hand that reaches out to touch him is warm and slippery with human blood.“I probably shouldn’t be,” John assents. “But you’re the one who said we wouldn’t be alone at the Continental.”“And is that what you want? To be alone with me?”In which John Wick is a perennial disaster but Winston is still here for it.





	Intent

**Author's Note:**

> I thought I was done with this series, but the idea of John not having a nice time after his first job wouldn't leave me alone. (And tea and whiskey is a thing, see [this](https://www.theglenlivet.com/en-US/article/whiskyandtea).) 
> 
> Addendum: parts one and two are good for context, but if you just want to read banter and John being confused about how British Winston is, you probably don't need to.

At first, Winston thinks it’s the window in his spare bedroom, the incessant _rap-rapping_ noise. The weather has recently been a terror, and it’s made Winston almost homesick for a certain bungalow in Cumbria known perversely more for its perennial leaks than any of its home comforts. 

Funny how that works. 

But no, he pads into the other room and it’s not the window. It seems to be the door, after all. Winston takes a moment to load a revolver and tightens the knot around his dressing gown. Very few people know of this address, and paranoia’s never hurt anyone, especially given recent events. 

He thinks this, until he opens the door and finds a figure curled up on his welcome mat. The figure is even familiar, upon a second look. 

“Hi,” says John Wick. 

“Good lord,” Winston says. “What’s happened to you, Jonathan?” 

“First job,” John manages. “Fuck.” 

Winston reaches for the light in the hallway. He is careful not to let too much of the brightness spill out into the corridor, but it is clear that John isn’t in a good way. 

”You shouldn’t be here,” Winston attempts to rub sleep out of his eyes. At first he thinks that he’s dreamed it, this Wick-shaped apparition, but then the hand that reaches out to touch him is warm and slippery with human blood. 

“I probably shouldn’t be,” John assents. “But you’re the one who said we wouldn’t be alone at the Continental.”

“And is that what you want? To be alone with me?”

“I guess,” John says. “You’re not an M. D., are you? Wishful thinking and all.” 

“There’s a doctor at the Continental,” although the idea of Winston as any sort of _medical doctor_ is so absurd it’s probably at least earned John the promise of shelter and some gauze and maybe a cup of tea. Winston opens the door of his apartment wider despite his instincts towards self-preservation is telling him that it is a bad idea. 

“I’ll go in a minute.” 

“You can’t even stand,” Winston reaches to haul John to his feet. John hisses with effort and clutches at the tie of WInston’s dressing gown and all right, maybe Winston is due a trip to the dry cleaners’ anyway. “Come on.” 

Somehow, they make it into Winston’s living room but not his bedroom. John’s transgressions, easy enough to puzzle out, have left a telling trail from the front door to the foot of Winston’s very nice settee from Bradington-Young. American, but he lives to surprise. 

“Jesus,” John winces at his own mess. “I’ll have to clean that up.” 

“Maybe,” Winston says. “Don’t worry about that now.” It won’t take that much convincing that Winston might also need a new sofa. Perhaps something proper and imported for this next time. Then he says, “Want some tea?” 

John’s eyes narrow, “You think I want _tea_.”

“I’ll put whiskey in.” 

“Is that a thing?” 

“Used to be, when I was a boy,” Winston tells him. “Probably still is, but not here.” 

That said, he leaves John momentarily to put on the kettle and to root around in his drawers for something that might help with the pain. Over the years, Winston has come to appreciate the careful administration of certain sedatives to help him sleep. Maybe there’s something to this, not sleeping at all hours. 

Still, Winston decides, that he’d rather want John conscious because you can never really tell when a person has lost that much blood, when they might want to pop their clogs, and not always when they mean to. 

The kettle goes, and after a moment more of thinking about it, Winston tips a generous glug of Glenlivet into John’s tea and pokes his head around the corner.

“Would you like milk?” 

“You’re seriously making me tea.” 

“It’s half whiskey,” Winston tells him. “At this point, the tea is what makes this amount of whiskey acceptable.” 

“What are you doing, trying to take advantage of me?” John tries to drag himself a little bit more upright but in the end, his smirk is frayed by a wince. 

“...What else am I meant to do with a young man who wants to be alone with me?” Winston returns and it might just be his wanting imagination, but he thinks that John has gone a bit red. 

 

“It wasn’t supposed to go the way it did,” John mumbles into his tea; in the end, he’s opted for just a dash of semi-skimmed. Winston has managed to get him into the bathroom and rid him of all of his clothes, all soaked with blood.

Winston decides that John will have to see a proper doctor anyway, but for the moment, he’s just going to liberally apply gauze and medical tape with the occasional staple and hope that John will hold until morning. 

“It almost never does,” Winston says. 

“What was your first job like?” 

“I don’t remember.”

“Liar,” John says, and then smiles, with bits of blood stuck between his teeth. “Tell me. I won’t tell anyone.” 

Winston yanks John back by his hair and John makes a surprised noise. John holds his gaze, full of a strange yearning and want that is all but foreign to Winston now. Intent. Intent when he has absolutely no idea what he’s getting into. All young men start that way, that in itself is not so surprising. 

And then John cranes his neck up another precarious inch and kisses Winston like he did in the car months back. And Winston had been expecting something like this, a guerrilla attack, if you will, in theory, but not exactly in practice. He tastes John’s blood, and the tail-end of whatever cheap thing that John had for dinner. 

“Tell me about your first job, Mr. Manager.” 

Winston thinks, that if they go any further than kiss, that he’s going to need something stronger than gauze and medical tape to hold the boy together; something strong enough to withstand the possibility of coitus. Because of course, that’s what is worth thinking about, right now. Oh, and the fact that he’s run out of moisturizer just this morning. 

“Why do you want to know?” 

Though it is by some law of foolish inevitability that Winston is drawn to John. If it weren’t so late at night, Winston might have came up with exact reasons _why_ he was, and more urgently, _exactly_ why those reasons were not worth entertaining. Especially now, as John is literally falling to pieces held together by adhesive. 

John gulps his tea, the way that one should never gulp tea, and Winston looks at the attractive bump of his throat. 

“Because you don’t want to tell me,” John says. “I bet you were just as bad as me.”

Winston kisses him, and allows his tongue to take up the salt on John’s skin, towards the underside of his jaw and over the painstaking half-inch of his upkept stubble. 

John makes a lovely sound, somewhere between a moan and a sigh and his hand curls around Winston’s neck. 

After a moment, Winston pulls back. If he is honest -- and he is, often enough, because in a man’s head, where he is alone, he doesn’t have to contend with the hypocrisy governing the outside world vis-a-vis himself -- it’s because he’s terrified yet again. John Wick has that effect on him, and what makes it all the more enamoring is that John seems to know it exactly halfway. 

And of course he’s worried about the practical things, like John’s wounds not spilling open at an inopportune time or the fact that he is, _appallingly_ out of moisturizer. 

“I was possibly worse than you,” Winston says, in a bid to save himself or not at all. 

John looks bright and interested. He raises his right hand, the one that is slightly less bloody, and loosens the knot around Winston’s robe and then snakes in, again, with intent, to rest against the warm skin of his belly. 

“You mean you didn’t jump out a window and get stuck.” 

Stuck. Fascinating. 

Young men, thinks Winston in the most affectionate of terms, will never cease to amaze him, “I didn’t manage to complete my first job, Jonathan. It is why they took my kidney. So I would learn.” 

John twists around, graceful, as if he doesn’t have any part of him that isn’t quite whole. He kisses Winston, intently and slow, forgiving, from one young man to another. 

“And did you? Learn, I mean.” 

“The best I could,” Winston says. He gets up from the side of the tub and after a few tries, John succeeds, unfolding himself. Winston almost forgets he is naked, with all that gauze. Then he adds, because he can't exactly help himself, “...Stuck?” 

“Shut up,” John says and pins him against the wall. The tiles against his back are cold, Winston can feel that, even through his clothes. 

 

“I don’t have any moisturizer.” 

John blinks nearly owlishly and pops Winston’s fingers out from his hot wet mouth, “...You’re worried about lube.” 

“You’re not?” 

John shrugs, “I could start. But I’m like…” He gestures at himself. “I think I can take it.” 

And John does take it, and by the sounds of it, he likes it too. He pushes back against Winston’s cock and with a lovely, delicious jerk of his hips, he comes with something that sounds like a whine. 

Then John sinks to his knees and Winston comes against his tonsils with a gasp. 

“For last time,” John grins. Winston touches his red mouth and even that makes him twitch just about. 

“That wasn’t anything you had to pay back, Jonathan.” Winston looks down at him, “I’ll still have to call you a doctor.” Some of the gauze is stained with telling red. 

“That can wait a couple of hours, right?” John stands, rolling his shoulders. 

“I suppose it could,” Winston says, drawing him close again.


End file.
